


Rache

by stillwaters01



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Post-A Study In Pink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillwaters01/pseuds/stillwaters01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of ASiP, John and Lestrade share a drink and discuss work, Sherlock, and the real reason why Anderson touched his face with crime scene gloves that night in Brixton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rache

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
> 
> Written: 10/8 – 10/9/14
> 
> Notes: This is lighter than my usual fare. I was in the mood to write some Lestrade and John friendship and when I went back to ASiP, I noticed two instances of characters touching their faces with gloved hands at the Brixton crime scene. While this certainly isn’t unusual in TV, I wanted to play around with some reasons why two professionals might have done that. John has a brief moment after Sherlock tells Lestrade to stop thinking where he touches his face with his gloved left hand. He then only touches the body with his gloved right hand. And Anderson puts his gloved hand not only to his face, but a finger to his lips when telling them that the woman was German, right before Sherlock slams the door in his face. I thought it would be fun if there was a story behind Anderson doing something so seemingly unprofessional, and this piece was the result. As always, I hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading and for your continued support. I cherish every response.

 

 

 

A few days after the dust of entering Sherlock Holmes’ life had settled, John sat in a quiet pub corner getting to know DI Lestrade, a pint in his hands and the blessed absence of microwaved tissue in the surrounding air.

 

John Watson wasn’t a squeamish man; he wouldn’t have lasted long in either of his professions if he had been. But Lestrade’s mock drugs bust had the unsettling side effect of reminding Sherlock about the eyes in the microwave, and with the serial killer case solved and Sherlock’s boredom rising…….well, there was only so long John could deal with the smell of repeatedly microwaved body parts before his mind starting going places better left unvisited.

 

Lestrade had phoned him at _exactly_ the right time.

 

The two of them ended up having a lot in common. There was some talk of Sherlock, of Lestrade’s years knowing and collaborating with him, and of what John was getting himself into by virtue of meeting the dark-coated whirlwind, but mostly they talked about their own work, swapping stories with a mutually dry, world-weary morbid humor; the sort shared by those who regularly walked the path of life, illness, violence, and death.

 

They had been talking for over an hour, when John brought up Brixton.

 

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask……” he started, mulling over the upcoming phrasing.

 

Lestrade waved him on over a sip of his drink.

 

“The night we met, right before Sherlock shut the door in his face, Anderson……” John cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling like a child about to get someone in trouble.

 

Lestrade broke into a knowing grin as he set his glass down. “Put his gloved finger to his lips?”

 

John tilted his head, impressed with Lestrade’s perception. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve seen how awful Sherlock is to him, but……”

 

“But you’re wondering if Anderson deserves it,” Lestrade finished, without a hint of accusation. “Not exactly the best forensic technique, yeah?” he winked.

 

“Okay, either you’re part-Sherlock…..”

 

“God, no,” Lestrade hurriedly denied.

 

“…Or, there’s a hell of a story there,” John finished, leaning forward expectantly.

 

When they had gone up to the room where Jennifer Wilson died, John had nearly walked right out in embarrassment after realizing he scratched a spot above his left eye with his gloved left hand. It was a testament to how much he was still struggling in his adjustment to civilian life, how distant and jumbled his mind was, to make such a basic error. In his line of work, he damn well knew better than to touch his face with gloves on – God knew what body fluids and potential sources of infection were on them after patient care, or what contaminants his gloved hands could bring to patients without maintaining sterile operative technique. It had only been the wonder of watching Sherlock work that stopped John’s self-chastisement, and when he was asked to examine the body, he’d made sure to only touch it with his right hand, not his contaminated left.

 

Which was why he had been so surprised when Anderson appeared in the doorway, interjecting on the word carved into the floor with an appalling German accent followed by putting his gloved hand not only to his face, but to his lips, in the breath before Sherlock slammed the door on him. The gloved hand used in processing a _crime scene_. As Lestrade had so mildly put it, certainly not the best forensic – or infection control - technique.

 

And while Sherlock obviously focused a lot of his vitriol on Anderson…..well, Scotland Yard wouldn’t employ someone _that_ incompetent, would they?

 

Lestrade grinned, leaning back in the booth in a comfortable sprawl reminiscent of his staged drugs bust, relaxed and ready to share. “I wasn’t lying when you asked why I put up with Sherlock,” he prefaced. “But you’ve met him. You _live_ with him,” he added that last statement after a brief pause, eyebrows raised with a mix of respect, gratitude, and curiosity.

 

John nodded, covering the phantom smell of microwaved eyes with another sip of his drink.

 

“So, yeah, he’s brilliant. But he’s also a bastard,” Lestrade shrugged with a combination of an exasperated parent’s fondness for a difficult child and a mate’s comfort in insulting another mate. “And you said it yourself, he’s especially awful to Anderson, who, by the way, is actually quite good at his job when he’s allowed to _do_ it. So, sometimes, he tries to wind Sherlock up.”

 

John gave Lestrade a ‘surely, exposing his mucous membranes to crime scene gloves isn’t worth potentially getting a rise out of Sherlock’ look.

 

“Of course not,” Lestrade answered the unspoken protest. “He obviously changes his gloves first. You saw how Sherlock is – you and I wore all the proper protective kit, while he swans in and out doing whatever he likes. Drives Anderson mad. So sometimes he’ll make it look like he’s doing something to contaminate a scene, just to see if Sherlock will notice.”

 

“But Sherlock notices everything,” John frowned.

 

“Like who the Prime Minister is?” Lestrade snorted good-naturedly.

 

“Good point,” John acquiesced. “He _is_ a bit selective.”

 

“Especially when he’s got a case. He was so focused on Jennifer Wilson’s body and impressing you with how clever he is….”

 

John’s protest quickly died on his lips as he realized, in retrospect, that Lestrade was absolutely right. He gave a mildly chagrined dip of the head for the DI to continue.

 

“….that there’s no _way_ he would have noticed what Anderson did.”

 

“So then why do it?” John asked, perplexed.

 

Lestrade’s face lit with a private grin. “Because one day, Sherlock _will_ notice. And Anderson has a list of every time and every _way_ Sherlock’s contaminated a scene, ready to take the piss out of him.”

 

“Sherlock will never admit he was wrong,” John pointed out.

 

“Probably not,” Lestrade agreed.

 

“So Anderson goes through all that in the hope that _one_ day, he _might_ be able to insult Sherlock’s competency as badly as Sherlock insults his?”

 

Lestrade nodded, eyes dancing with the pleasure of a long-held secret joke.  

 

“That’s…..actually pretty impressive,” John admitted.

 

“Isn’t it?” Lestrade smiled proudly. “To be honest, we’re all sort of looking forward to it: Anderson’s _rache,_ if you will.”

 

John echoed the DI’s bright bark of laughter. There was no malice in the crime scene reference – just the shared release-valve humor that kept guardians and protectors sane. Neither was there any malice toward Sherlock or Anderson. Within the flawless German accent was a muted fondness and respect for both men, as well as a solid trust that bringing John into the Yarders’ secret amusement wasn’t a mistake.

 

John’s back and shoulders relaxed fully for the first time in weeks. Even more than a concrete sense of purpose, it was _this_ – a sense of camaraderie - that was one the most painful losses in his discharge from the military. It was a comparatively little thing – a private joke shared with a newcomer over a pint – but it was the little gestures that spoke the loudest. It made John feel like part of something again; part of the world. He raised his glass in grateful response. “To Anderson’s _rache_ ,” he toasted.

 

Lestrade tipped his glass and drank with a smile: to Anderson, to Sherlock, and to the rare impossibility of John Watson – newfound ally to Scotland Yard and burgeoning friend to Sherlock Holmes.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
